The Beast Within
by Zsra187
Summary: 'The Maester says it's a fever, though Sansa isn't so sure.' When Arya and her wolf return to Winterfell, Sansa finds herself at the mercy of her own animalistic urges.
1. Chapter 1

The Beast Within

Her blood is boiling.

Or at least, that's what it feels like. It rushes through her veins like wildfire, forcing tiny beads of perspiration through her skin to dampen the sheets. Her forehead is hot to the touch and her entire body is slick with sweat.

The maester says it's a fever. He makes her drink stewed yarrow and vinegar, and says that it'll pass with time. But that was four days ago, and as Sansa lies in bed - a thousand live vipers writhing in her stomach making her squirm deep into the mattress - she cannot help but think that she may die from this. Not from physical pain, for there is very little of that, but from the heaviness of her bones, the racing of her heart, the constant restlessness of her limbs and the searing, all-consuming _fire_ that devours her body from dawn til dusk.

Confined to her chamber, she suddenly finds herself unable to undertake the usual day-to-day responsibilities that would usually bring her such comfort. When anyone comes to her side, whether it be her maid who brings her hot soup or the towering master of her guard, she badgers them with questions. _Have the stonemasons finished the sept? Does the maester know which of the families in Winter Town have children that are sick? And what of their guest? Is she settled? Does she seem happy?_

Sometimes they give her answers, sometimes she cannot recall them. Mostly she remembers the feel of a cool cloth on her forehead and the gentle rasp of 'Hush, hush,' in her ear.

It is a kind of torture, being shut up like this. A different kind of cage from before, but no less painful. She longs to take a walk outside, just to relieve herself from the stuffy oppressiveness of her room but everyone tells her to rest. She only need pull up the heavy latch on the door for her maid to be on her like a hound smelling blood, taking her hands and guiding her gently back to her bed. She suspects he's put her up to it, although she can't be sure.

The frustration it builds within her is unlike anything she's ever felt before. Each time she finds herself thwarted by the maid or any other such creature, she feels the tears smother behind her eyelids. She flings herself onto the bed. She sweats, aches and cries. Sometimes she clenches her fists and pounds at the mattress, letting loose a little of the rage contained within her, but she desists soon after. She isn't a child anymore, and losing control over oneself like that isn't particularly ladylike.

However, it is her actions at night that cause her the most shame. When the light fades and the moon rises in the sky, she throws open her windows to the inky darkness and gulps in the frigid air. Some nights, like this night, she can hear a wolf howling in the distance. The sound of it stirs something deep inside of her and without thinking, her legs carry her back to her bed and she lies down upon it.

Every part of her aches. A sudden pang jolts in her belly, so deep and intense that she yearns to cry out, but stops herself. Someone might hear, but they mustn't come; she doesn't want anyone to witness this. Turning onto her stomach, she reaches for a pillow and nestles it between her legs. It's velvet, so soft against her thighs and she moans quietly into the pillow as her hips start to rock in a rhythm all their own.

Before the fever, the thought of taking her own pleasure had been one that had rarely occurred to her; she'd heard enough immodest tales from Myranda Royce at the Eyrie, but to even contemplate letting her hand drift into her small clothes would cause her cheeks to burn hot with embarrassment. But now her body seems to have taken control of her mind, for it's all she can think about. She rolls onto her back and lets her fingers explore, tries to keep to a gentle pace - a _respectable_ pace, one might say - but exhilaration spikes within her and it only takes a moment for them to slide down her body and in between her thighs.

Then it starts. It's an odd thing, but it's been happening more and more of late - mostly at night, and always at this particular moment when she stands on the top of the precipice, teetering over the edge, ready to jump into oblivion. As the pressure builds within her, she becomes _unlike_ herself. She becomes almost... wild. Her limbs force themselves into the most violent of gestures; her hands claw at the sheets, her hips rocking so furiously against the feather bed that she's sure someone must be able to hear the sound of her pleasure echoing through the stone walls. She wants to cry, to arch her back and scream out loud, and when she reaches the strongest, sharpest, sweetest moment of all, she feels the strangest inclination to howl. Instead, she gives a breathless shudder and falls back upon the mattress, peaceful. Sated.

Far away in the darkness, the wolf continues to howl and Sansa slides into sleep, blissfully unaware of a shadowy presence skulking outside her chamber. Small and sinewy, the shadow picks it's fingernails with a dagger while listening to the pleasured moans of the woman beyond the door. Finally, once the deed is done and the bed stops creaking, the shadow pushes itself from the wall and stalks away to leave its sister in peace.

* * *

A/N: Saw this prompt and it wouldn't leave me alone. Any and all feedback, including constructive criticism, is greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

The Beast Within

Dark, billowing clouds obscure the stars and the moon. Sansa pads along the ground, stopping every so often to lift her head and examine her surroundings. The trees are thick here and their branches reach towards the night sky like spindly fingers. She must be deep in the heart of the wolfswood. Sometimes she catches a scent of something on the wind - something rich and metallic - and it makes her mouth water.

She carries on; picking her way over roots, dragging her fingernails over tree bark. She was always terrified of the wolfswood as a child, especially with the stories Old Nan used to tell. Now the wood feels like an old friend, welcoming her home. It's strange to her how natural it all feels, and yet somehow unnatural.

She has more strength now than she's had in days. She can feel the power in her limbs, her muscles taut and straining. They twitch with an eagerness to be put to the test.

There are memories; memories of frenzied yips and growls, of pumping blood and bared teeth. But that is all that they are: memories. Now the fever has disappeared, and a calmness has settled deep in her body.

A fierce wind rustles through the trees. She turns her nose to the sky - as if some invisible hand has taken her chin and pointed it upwards - just in time to watch the clouds blow apart and the moon appear as if from nowhere. The sight of it hanging fat and yellow in the darkness awakens something within.

She throws back her head and lets out a long, powerful howl. In the Great Keep at Winterfell, Sansa Stark wakes.

* * *

'Her ladyship is awake and feeling much better this morning,' the maid announces happily as she enters the bustle of the kitchen. 'I'll take her something to break her fast, if you please.'

The fat cook rolls her neck and shouts over her shoulder. ' Here Wylbar, I told you it'd be gone in less than a week. You can take that poxy kerchief off your face now.' The man named Wylbar looks around suspiciously and pulls off a thick cloth covering his mouth. The cook tuts and rolls her eyes.

Taking a seat on an upturned bucket, the maid holds out her hands for a breakfast tray as the cook busies herself with the pot. 'Honey and oats and warm milk please, Miri. You know how she likes it.'

'That I do. I've worked in this keep for near twenty years, you think I don't remember?'

The maid smiles. Miri seemed to be taking much umbrage lately to any suggestion that her memory might not be as good as it used to be. Suggestions that were made with good reason, the maid thinks. Miri's nearly fifty and closer to the grave than the crib.

'Every morning I made this for her, when she was a little 'un,' Miri continues. 'Every morning until they left. And I haven't forgotten, after all these years.'

'Alright, alright.' The maid rises to her feet eager to get going, but the cook isn't done reminiscing yet.

'And the other one,' she mutters darkly, as she mixes the oats furiously with one jangling arm. 'She was in here this morning before the castle was awake, creeping around and snatching a taste o' this and a taste o' that. Saw me watching her, but didn't say a word. Just sauntered off through the Hunter's Gate and out into the Wolfswood.'

The maid listens with interest, having heard a lot about their mysterious guest, but not yet caught a sight of her. 'What's she like?'

'Looks just like she did when she were little,' Miri sighs as she dollops a large ladle of oats into a bowl. 'Only bigger. Not as chatty though. A bit strange.'

Taking the tray in her arms, the maid turns to make her way up the staircase to the upper floors, pausing only slightly to catch the old cook's final musing.

'A pity,' she says to herself. 'Such a pity.'

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who left a review on the last chapter, they were lovely to read! I realise that I gave absolutely no indication then of what this story was going to be about, which struck most of you as quite mysterious! Suffice to say, this _will_ be a Sansa/Sandor multi-chapter fic, based upon a prompt that was left at the Sansa_Sandor Community on Livejournal. I hope that's enough to satisfy some of your worries/curiosities for now! Again, thanks for reading and feedback is greatly appreciated :-)


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